


Touch and Go

by cmshaw



Category: due South
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-04
Updated: 2003-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmshaw/pseuds/cmshaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's not the first person to lose her breath and her common sense in here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch and Go

Fingers curl over heavy fabric -- soft hands, incongruous in her newly chosen profession, but she can't bear to let go of all of her dedication over the years to being the perfect girl right down to the tips of her fingers -- so Frannie's fingers slip smoothly over the rough edges, the thick braids that mean success and privilege, the impenetrable surface of the woman who pushes her up against the wall now. She can't help groaning and spreading her legs for the uniform, her skirt riding too high on her thighs and crumpling into nothingness around her waist. Her thighs feel so soft. There's a hard leg pressed between them, holding her open and holding her open, holding her back arched and her eyes closed. Her blouse is open to halfway down her vulnerable stomach. 

She's not the first person to lose her breath and her common sense in here. It's the worst-kept secret in the station, this most private of interview rooms that everyone calls, with a wink and a nudge, the closet. She pretends that she can feel them all around her, pretends that in fucking Fraser's boss she's really fucking just a little bit of Fraser too, enough to get her pride back. The muscled leg between her thighs tenses and presses harder into her as she curls her fingers and pushes Thatcher's mouth down toward the lace and ribbons which decorate the sharp outlines of her pinched nipples. Teeth close on her breast and she bites her own lips, tasting her own lipstick and a powdery suggestion of Thatcher's cosmetics.

Thatcher leans back and Frannie pulls harder. She twists her hips up, grinding her clit against the rough uniform through panties and pantyhose and feeling Thatcher's hip push back to meet her. She puts one hand down to the belt which girdles Thatcher's tunic and tugs against the waxy stitching before shifting her hand lower. She can hardly find any hip with her hand; from there it's all hidden by layers and layers of uniform, but she tilts back and spreads herself open and from here, from below, she can feel every flex of muscle and curve of bone.

A hand cups her breast, calloused skin catching on the fabric of her bra, and she turns her chest until the base of Thatcher's thumb is bearing down on her nipple. It's tiny pinches of fire sparkling through her, snapping like firecrackers in her clit to urge her hips to thrust, and she does. She hauls Thatcher down against her and does it, thrusts as hard as she can, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the armored uniform and her teeth digging into her lips as orgasm tingles bare moments away. Thatcher grinds against her, fucking her against the wall and holding her breasts, and Frannie rolls her shoulders back and rides. Climax comes shuddering through with a knockout series of bright spasms, and Frannie gasps and slips her sweaty hands along the leather and symbolism. A slow push forward coaxes out another spasm. She holds whatever part of Thatcher she can reach and rubs herself gratefully along Thatcher's leg and tingles and breathes.

When Thatcher holds her up against the wall, she blinks vaguely and tries to focus her eyes. Thatcher's hand pushes roughly between her legs against the nylon and cotton. Impatiently Thatcher rubs her, sending Frannie writhing exhaustedly against her fingers, then grabs the edge of her pantyhose and sweeps them down around her ankles, panties and all, in one movement. Thatcher's hands run up Frannie's bare legs as she stands again, and Frannie risks a soft moan for her as Thatcher's fingers dig into her cunt. She feels swollen and wet, more so with Thatcher's hard fingers inside of her, and she reaches back and unclasps her bra, letting it fall forward to bare her breasts. Thatcher is reaching inside her own uniform trousers now, and Frannie can feel it when Thatcher's fingers find her own clit because her other hand curls and slips half out of Frannie's cunt.

She rubs her thumbs over her nipples, lightly, so lightly, but even that makes her shiver and tense around Thatcher's fingers. Thatcher is watching her hands, though, so she keeps herself on display, lifting her breasts higher. Her soft fingers cradle the soft skin underneath the weight of her breasts and she imagines that Thatcher's hand in her trousers is touching her clit with the same circles that her thumbs are drawing over her nipples. Thatcher's eyes slip closed and her mouth slips open as she comes; her hand eases carefully out of Frannie even as her other arm jerks emphatically to drive her orgasm.

They haven't spoken aloud since closing the door to the station behind them, and they don't use words now. Thatcher leans herself next to Frannie and slowly, thoughtfully, licks her fingers. Frannie pulls up her pantyhose and pulls down her skirt, knowing that the wrinkles in the thin black fabric will announce her all afternoon. The thought makes her smile as she pulls the cups of her bra back up over her breasts and hooks the clasp closed. Thatcher runs a wet finger from her collarbones to her cleavage and back as she rebuttons the blouse, and Frannie takes her hand and sucks the work-roughed fingers into her mouth, savoring the taste of sex. 

 


End file.
